


A Thousand Words

by aria_vitali



Series: Collections of History Unwritten [16]
Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Anger, Angst and Feels, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Canonical Character Death, Character Death, Death, Emotional Baggage, Gen, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Original Character(s), Sorrow, Summoner | SMN (Final Fantasy XIV)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-03
Updated: 2020-03-03
Packaged: 2021-02-28 05:42:23
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 931
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22998634
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aria_vitali/pseuds/aria_vitali
Summary: [SPOILERS FOR SHADOWBRINGERS UP TO THE END OF 5.2]Aria isn't a stranger to being visited by death. What she isn't used to is one not letting her friend rest peacefully in death's embrace.
Series: Collections of History Unwritten [16]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1541752
Kudos: 5





	A Thousand Words

**Author's Note:**

> I needed to get this out of my system. Real bad.

They say that a picture paints a thousand words. From the meaning of colors used by an artist to the memory behind a frozen moment of time. To every individual, a personal story is developed and no two tales weaved are exactly alike.

Aria wished and prayed that the man that stood before her was him. That, by some miracle of the star, Ardbert had _actually_ been reborn into this world. Or, by some other happenstance, some trace of his blood that existed allowed him to be reincarnated.

When he speaks, the words float in one ear and out the other. Aria’s heart clenched with that familiar voice that anchored her during her journey to bring back the night.

“Hah. It seems I’ve lost this particular race,” he says.  
_Stop it_ , Aria thinks. _How dare you use his voice._  
“Ah, though I suppose it’s only fair.”  
_Shut up. Get. Out._  
“But where are my manners? I wouldn’t be here were it not for you, and I have yet to say a word of thanks!”

It was about time to end this charade. Aria lifted her hand, bringing her fingers closed to a fist, and held it out towards ‘Ardbert’. A gesture all too reminiscent, one that he implored her to do when she was losing hope. A gesture that, above all else, saved her not only in body, but in mind and spirit. 

The warrior could only stare at her in confusion, raising his brow skeptically.

“Arm giving you trouble?” he asks, shattering the Hyur woman. “You should have it examined.”

Aria felt her heart drop to her stomach. She knew it was wishful to think Ardbert had been brought back. Yet, she couldn’t help but hope. It’s all she’s ever known. It’s all she’s ever done.

So, when she brings her arm back close, she gazed down to her fist. A wave of emotions threatened to send her overboard, so much so that she heard a soft gasp from the twins when the aether about her seemed to electrify. Aria knew Y’shtola had stepped closer, but she paid it no mind. For how _dare_ Elidibus defile the body of this world’s hero? Why can he not let him rest in peace?

A few days later, Aria returned to the Crystarium for a night to rest a spell before she returned to the Source. It was then that the hunters of the Cardinal Virtues all visited her throughout different hours of the evening - Taynor, Granson, Lue-Reeq, Giott. All of them offered advice, lent their ear and vowed that, should she request it, they will not hesitate to fight with her to put the Ascian down. 

How could she ask that of them? They didn’t know who it was they were facing.

Then, Cyella came.

“I knew this day might come,” she said. “Ardbert never did reappear as a Virtue. But to see his flesh stolen by the selfsame Ascian that made mock of their sacrifice…”

_I know_ , Aria thought.

“I cannot ask more of you, not after what you’ve given,” she whispered in a broken voice, as if pained to do so. “Set him free. Lay him to rest with the others, in honor and triumph.”

When Aria returned to her home, to Ishgard, the next day, she slowly made her way to Fortemps manor. The snow calmly danced amidst the gentle Coerthan breeze, the sensation of an active season a nice change of pace than the season-less environment of Novrandt.

She had heard that the main body of the military efforts at Ghimlyt Dark had departed, leaving the defense to the Resistance. Which meant that he should be returning soon, if not already.

When the house guards allowed her entrance and she stepped through the manor doors, she was none at all surprised to find that Aymeric was returned to the city proper with both her brothers, Stryder and Artoirel. Lord Edmont shifted his gaze and smiled gently towards the woman, reminding her too much of the way Haurchefant would look when greeting her at Camp Dragonhead when she would visit. All those moons ago.

“Ah, what a pleasant surprise,” Lord Edmont greeted her.  
Stryder grinned. “Yo, Ia.”

Aymeric’s expression was full of love and relief at the sight of her and he motioned forward to meet her halfway. The sudden warmth before her, the knowledge of what she was leaving behind while the others dealt with the new roadblock in their research, the guilt of not being able to stop the misled ‘Warriors of Light’ as they set forth trying to take on a burden she knew was too much for them...for any of them…

It was then that the woman collapsed to her knees and pressed her hands to her face. Her figure subconsciously curled up as she released tears of frustration and sorrow for all that had been going on. Her screams echoed throughout the hall and the men rushed to where she was with Aymeric reaching her first to take her in his arms.

In this moment, she allowed herself this weakness. Thousands of words unspoken spilled from her eyes and flowed from her lips with every sob, every wail, every grip of her hand against the fabric of the lord commander’s armor. Thousands of words displaying the anguish felt by Eorzea’s blade, the warrior of warriors and, most of all, a woman promising retribution to the Ascian’s folly. Swearing it with her very soul.

Indeed, a picture paints a thousand words.

  
But no picture can come close to painting the color of her soul.


End file.
